


The Way Back Home

by tinbox



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Angst, Episode Related, M/M, Post-5x12, Slow Burn, warnings in notes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-04-08
Packaged: 2018-03-21 21:46:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3705623
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinbox/pseuds/tinbox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Ian doesn’t love him anymore and Terry comes back to mess with his life one more time. Things don’t seem to be moving up for Mickey Milkovich, so he gets out of the loop and fuck if he’s got a reason for coming back.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Way Back Home

**Author's Note:**

> First time I’ve written fic in, what? Five years? Jesus. *nervous*
> 
> Post-5x12, lots of angst, warning for… basically everything you see on the show: mentions of abuse/neglect and rape, alcoholism, slurs all over the place, (off-screen) violence. The first chapter is more of a lead into the actual plot (!), so it’s a bit more succinct and up to the point than the rest. I hope you enjoy!

The first time Mickey tells Ian he loves him is a month after Ian’s first depressive episode. Mickey is riding cock like it’s a fucking circus pony and Ian is clutching to his hips with a grip so tight it’s bound to bruise. The house is empty, the window is open, and Mickey feels _free_ , like that breeze from the window is a reminder of how far they’ve come because, despite the sound of people outside, in that moment he doesn’t care if they hear that he’s moaning a steady stream of ‘ _fuck fuck fuck_ ’ not at all discreetly. He picks up the speed.

He cares a little more when that breathy litany turns into a more audible yelp of pain, not pleasure. “Shit! Fuck, damn, jesus fuck…” he groans as the back of his thigh suddenly starts spasming. “Mother _fuck_!” he yelps and topples down off of Ian and almost falls off the bed.

He’s still groaning and trying to straighten his leg when he becomes aware of unmistakable chuckling from the bed beside him. He flips his middle finger in Ian’s direction. “Yeah yeah, I love you too, bitch,” he grumbles before he can think better of it.

The chuckling peters out.

There’s a distinct feeling of getting stuck in time, like his mind is backpedalling. For a moment, he wishes he could take it back because he’s known it for a long time but it’s one thing to know it and another thing to say it. Inside of him, it’s just a feeling. Outside of him, it’s a weapon that can be used against him.

But that moment comes and goes. It goes with hardly a bang when Ian scrambles up to sit, his hand on Mickey’s knee, and crawls over to peer at Mickey where his head is almost hanging off the edge of the bed. There’s a pink hue to his cheeks that could just be from the sex, but there’s a soft smile on his face that’s full of wonder. “You do?” Ian asks, but he doesn’t sound surprised, more like he’s just been waiting.

Mickey rolls his eyes and feels time start moving again. “‘Course I do.”

Ian’s smile widens. “I love you too,” he says softly.

There’s a warm glow spreading inside Mickey’s chest as they stare at each other for a long second. It keeps spreading when Ian seems to snap out of it, his smile turning more wicked and his hands getting back in motion. He runs his palms up and down Mickey’s thighs, settling between his legs. “Here,” Ian switches to baby talk as he grabs the ankle of the leg that had been cramping up and lifts it in the air, “did widdle Mickey have a boo-boo?”

Mickey tries to kick him in the head.

Ian just laughs and lifts his other leg up too, stretching them up and toward Mickey’s head. “Let me kiss it better,” he keeps lisping, words barely intelligible through the laughter.

“Ey, fuck you,” Mickey says as Ian moves down his body. 

After a second or two, he raises his eyebrows high to his hairline and lifts his head to peer at what Ian’s doing. “And that’s definitely not the back of my thigh.”

Ian’s laughter, muffled against Mickey’s skin, sends burst of pleasure racing up his spine, so he settles back down, revelling in the flick of Ian’s tongue and the fact that Ian is finally happy and that they love each other and that nothing came crashing down.

The last time Mickey tells Ian he loves him is standing in front of the Gallagher house, before the weapons come out.

Then Sammy comes round the corner and pulls hers out, too.

\---

(Except that isn’t really the last time, is it?)

\---

He’s amazed he isn’t in prison. Attempted murder tends to do that to a person. Added to that all the heist jobs he’s probably got a warrant for, which the cops shouldn’t have any trouble connecting to him once his name gets typed into the system, means he really should be facing at least ten. Except apparently gods are smiling down upon him, or at least the burnt-out, vacant stares of overworked city employees are. No one seems to give a shit if a couple of white trash pieces of shit try to kill each other, as long as they don’t disturb the healthy middle-class breakfast that had been cooking a couple of houses down the street. ‘Disturbance of peace’ is what he gets slapped with, some fines he’s probably not gonna pay and a stern warning not to do it again. Apparently Sammy didn’t blab, after all, about why she was chasing him down, and Mickey sure as hell isn’t gonna snitch to the cops, so there’s that. Despite everything, he feels a little bit of grudging respect for the woman. Eye for an eye and then it’s done, no need to get some paper pushers involved. Sammy seems to get that, too, as Mickey meets her eye across the busy precinct. She flips him off in her handcuffs but there’s a look in her eye that says the rage is burning low and the scores are even. Mickey can respect that, even if he still wants to gauge the bitch’s kidneys out with a dull spoon. He backs up whatever story Sammy cooked up. He doesn’t care if she gets away with it; they’ve got their own kind of justice figured out, it’s done, and he’s done fighting.

He feels kind of numb, actually. The adrenaline rush from all the running and yelling and trying to think of what to say to the pigs, all of that had distracted him for the time being. It drained him of energy and now he just doesn’t really feel anything at all.

Svetlana is waiting for him outside the precinct with the Milkovich car. She gives him a look like a mother scolding her child. Mickey shoots him a glare back. “Don’t start.”

“You give her roofie?” she bites back. “You are stupid child.”

Mickey doesn’t answer as they climb into the car.

“Where’s Yev?” he asks when they’re heading through Bronzeville.

“With Vee and Kevin.”

Mickey looks out the window at the passing buildings. “You can bring him back to the house now.” He swallows around the lump in his throat. “Ian’s not gonna be there anymore.”

He can feel Svetlana looking at him. “You kick carrot boy out?”

“None of your fucking business,” he snaps at her, rage suddenly boiling in his veins. “You coming back or what?”

“Kevin says I can stay in room above bar.”

“Fine. Whatever. Do what you want.”

Silence descends upon them and Mickey feels like he’s about to burst out of his skin. There’s some old lady crossing the street when they stop for the lights. She’s moving so slow Mickey wants to yell at her to hurry the fuck up, jesus christ.

When the lights change and the granny is safely on the sidewalk, Svetlana says with a note of finality in her tone, “I come back but Nika come too.”

Mickey thinks of how the only sound filling the house during the past couple of days had been the wind creaking in the walls. “Yeah, whatever,” he says and goes back to staring out the window.

\---

He tries not to think about it because what the fucking use is thinking about it, but it loops around in his brain anyway. And the more he thinks about it, the more his feelings shift from fugue to simmering anger.

_You used to love me_. Fucking _used_ to, as if Mickey hasn’t spent the last months pouring his love out of his every fucking pore, trying to do everything in his power to make sure Ian knows that he’s cared for. Yeah, so he flipped out with the hospital. Doesn’t mean Ian could just give up on him. _Used to_ , as if Ian could tell Mickey how he feels, like he knows him better than he knows himself. _Ian_ is the one who wanted everything to go back to the way it was, who wanted Mickey to punch him and fight him and take trips down memory lane so he could fucking feel something because he wasn’t feeling anything for Mickey anymore.

His brain kind of shuts down at the realisation. His coffee goes cold on the counter where he leaves it as he goes to get a beer instead.

\----

They settle into some sort of routine where Mickey drinks like a middle-aged deadbeat and Svetlana and Nika try not to step on him too often. Then after about a week of sulking in the recliner with a can of beer in his hand, Svetlana comes and hits him with a baby toy. “Up. Baby need changing. You will do it.”

“What the fuck, Lana-” he starts to protest and rubs his head where she hit him.

“You change diaper or I shove beer can up your ass.”

“Jesus.”

“And go shower. You stink worse than diaper.”

He does as he’s told and changes Yevgeny very, very carefully considering how much his vision is swaying. Svetlana’s not a very responsible parent for letting him do this while he’s this drunk. Come to think of it, _he’s_ not a very responsible parent for getting this drunk while there’s a baby in the house to look after. He clutches the baby firmly to his chest so that he doesn’t drop him on his way to the crib. They both make it out of the ordeal alive, so Mickey goes to shower.

They settle into a new routine, one where he doesn’t drink as much, at least not when the baby is awake. Svetlana stops nagging, for the time being at least.

He’s a little bit glad that they’re here. Without them in the house, he knows he’d just feel void, shell-shocked maybe. Now the corners fill with voices that distract him from the pitiful feeling residing in his stomach: the baby crying and fussing, someone walking in the kitchen, opening drawers, talking on the phone, arguing about who drank the last milk. It’s only the nights that really crate on his nerves. There’s a cold spot next to him and the bed is too big after already having gotten used to sharing a single, even in such a short time.

He doesn’t see Ian, he doesn’t talk to Ian, he doesn’t talk _about_ Ian. He changes direction when he sees any of the fucking Gallaghers coming down the street, and Mickey is no pussy but there’s an ache in his chest all the time these days and he’d just rather not deal with any awkward small talk, thank you very much.

Generally speaking, things are pretty shitty.

Then Terry gets out of prison and tries to kill Mickey.

Well, there’s always a way for the universe to turn up the dial on bad news.

Life is fun that way.


End file.
